Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMPCDC6YBARJG56NRWFSMXE

The rain came down in sheets, turning the Soho streets into a shimmering maze of neon reflections and oily puddles. Detective Harlow Quinn sprinted after the figure in the dark hoodie, her breath coming in sharp bursts that fogged the cold air. Her worn leather watch slapped against her wrist with every stride, the salt-and-pepper strands of her cropped hair plastered to her sharp jaw. "Met Police! Stop!" The suspect didn't even glance back. He darted around a corner, his sneakers splashing through the gutter. Quinn cursed under her breath, pushing harder. She'd been staking out The Raven's Nest for hours, waiting for this bastard—one of Silas' runners—to make a move. Now he was leading her on a damn tour of London's underbelly. The green neon sign of the bar flickered behind her as she rounded the corner. The runner was fast, but Quinn had eighteen years of chasing scumbags through these streets. She closed the gap as they hit an alleyway, her boots skidding on wet brick. The runner yanked open a rusted service door and vanished inside. Quinn didn't hesitate. She shouldered through after him, into a narrow stairwell reeking of mildew and something sharper—ozone, maybe, or old magic. The runner's footsteps echoed below, descending into darkness. Her hand went to her hip, fingers brushing the grip of her service weapon. She didn't draw it. Not yet. The stairs spilled out into an abandoned Tube station, its tiled walls slick with condensation. The air hummed with low voices and the clatter of goods being bartered. Stalls lined the platform, their awnings strung with fairy lights that did little to dispel the gloom. The Veil Market. Quinn had heard whispers about this place. A black market for the things that went bump in the night. Her pulse kicked up. The runner weaved through the crowd, slipping past a vendor hawking vials of something that glowed faintly blue. Quinn followed, her military-trained eyes cataloging exits, threats, the way the shadows seemed to shift just wrong at the edges of her vision. A hand caught her arm. She spun, ready to strike—but it was just a man. Olive skin, dark curls, a scar running down his forearm. He wore a Saint Christopher medallion at his throat. "You're not supposed to be here," he said, voice low. His accent curled around the edges—Spanish, maybe. Quinn jerked her arm free. "Metropolitan Police. Step aside." The man—Tomás, his name tag said—didn't flinch. "You don't have jurisdiction here, Detective. And you don't have a token." He nodded toward the bone charms some of the patrons wore around their wrists. "They'll eat you alive if they find out you're not one of them." Quinn's gaze flicked back to where the runner had disappeared into the crowd. Gone. Again. She could push forward. Demand answers. But the weight of the market pressed in around her—too many eyes, too many teeth in the dark. Three years ago, Morris had chased a lead into something he didn't understand. He'd ended up in a morgue with his insides turned to glass. Quinn exhaled through her nose. "Fine." Tomás relaxed slightly. "Smart choice." She didn't thank him. Just turned on her heel and climbed back toward the rain, the neon, the world that made sense. But she'd be back. With a warrant. With backup. And next time, she wouldn't stop at the threshold.